Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

The first thing Dean learned after becoming the future consort of Alamina was that congratulations were a form of warfare.

Congratulations came with smiles.

With old nobles crowding in too close with the pretense of bringing blessings, foreign representatives speaking in careful layers, and relatives from three separate royal bloodlines eyeing him as if he had just been made a national monument and should thus be open to admiration from several angles.

Dean endured seventeen minutes of it.

He counted.

By the eighth minute, he had begun making a private list of people he would ban from all future events if Alamina gave consorts that power. By the eleventh, he had accepted that Alamina probably did not give consorts that power and began considering how quickly he could acquire it through charm, blackmail, or marriage.

The last one, unfortunately, had already been used.

Arion stood at his side through all of it, terrifyingly composed, one hand at Dean’s back with such calm possession that half the room kept glancing at it and then pretending they had not. His expression remained perfectly imperial.

Dean hated him for it.

Dean also leaned into the touch every time someone said something too ceremonially poetic about duty, unity, or the future of the continent.

This, apparently, was marriage.

Mutual support through diplomacy and the silent desire to escape through a decorative wall.

”The ceremony was magnificent, Your Highness,” said a minister from Draxil, bowing deeply.

Dean smiled with court-trained politeness. ”Thank you.”

”You honored the rite beautifully.”

”Did I?”

The minister faltered.

Arion’s thumb pressed once against Dean’s spine in warning.

Dean smiled wider.

The minister recovered. ”Very much so.”

”How fortunate.”

Arion’s hand did not move, but the bond warmed with amusement.

Dean refused to look at him. Looking at him would reward him.

Across the hall, the final public broadcast crew was being escorted away by palace staff. The ceremony had been shown live, from the first procession to the vows and the kiss, because apparently empire-wide emotional exposure was considered tradition. The gala, however, belonged to the families, the inner houses, and the official representatives from allied and neighboring countries.

Which meant there were fewer cameras.

It did not mean there were fewer eyes.

In some ways, that was worse.

Without the general public watching, everyone became more honest with their ambition.

The doors to the ceremony hall had been opened into the inner reception corridor, where gold light spilled toward the ballroom beyond. Music was already beginning there, softer than the orchestral force of the rite, warmer, meant for conversation and diplomacy and whatever crime Sahan royals considered entertainment.

Dean saw Dax laughing at something Lucas had said.

That was concerning.

Chris stood beside him with the expression of a man who had survived twenty-five years of Saha and could no longer be frightened by ordinary disasters.

Minerva appeared like mercy in imperial silk.

”My sons,” she said, looking at Arion first, then at Dean, ”you both need to change before the formal entrance to the gala.”

Dean had never loved his mother-in-law more.

”Yes,” he said immediately.

Arion’s mouth curved faintly.

Dean turned slowly. ”Do not smile.”

Arion’s small smile had turned in a wicked grin.

Minerva ignored them both. ”You have fifteen minutes.”

Dean stared at her. ”Fifteen?”

”The gala entrance is delayed only long enough for the official representatives to take their places.”

Dean considered this.

Fifteen minutes away from congratulations was still fifteen minutes away from congratulations.

”I accept.”

Arion inclined his head to his mother, then to Otto, who had approached behind her with the air of a man already preparing to return to political containment.

Otto’s gaze moved from Arion to Dean.

”Do not be late.”

Dean felt unfairly targeted.

”I have never been late to an imperial gala in my life.”

”You have never attended one as consort.”

”That sounds like a technicality.”

”It is a warning.”

Arion, traitor and husband, looked amused again.

Dean lifted his chin and allowed himself to be led away before he could say something that would make the emperor reconsider the marriage before the ink on history had dried.

The moment they left the main hall, the pressure almost disappeared.

Dean exhaled for the first time in what felt like hours.

Arion’s hand moved from Dean’s back to his waist, holding him there as they walked down a private passage lined with white stone and gold-veined columns.

”You did well,” Arion said.

Dean looked ahead. ”I did not bite anyone.”

”That was included in my assessment.”

”I want it recorded that I showed restraint.”

”It will be recorded.”

”By whom?”

”Security.”

Dean stopped walking.

Arion stopped with him, far too calm.

Dean turned his head slowly. ”Security recorded my restraint?”

”They recorded the ceremony.”

”That is not the same thing.”

”They are very thorough.”

Dean stared at him for one long second.

Then he pointed down the corridor. ”Walk before I become a widower during my own wedding.”

Arion’s eyes warmed with such open amusement that Dean nearly forgave him on the spot.

Disgusting.

Marriage was already eroding his principles.

They reached the private suite prepared for them beside the eastern ballroom corridor. It was not their chamber, not quite. More of a ceremonial resting room, designed for royal couples to recover between public appearances without needing to cross half the palace.

It was beautiful, of course.

Everything was beautiful here in the dangerous way.

Tall mirrors framed in pale gold. Low couches upholstered in deep black velvet. A table set with water, fruit, coffee, and two untouched plates that suggested someone had remembered Dean might need food and then had wisely decided not to make a speech about it. Beyond a half-open door, two separate dressing areas had been prepared with attendants waiting.

Dean saw the attendants, the replacement formal attire, and the clock.

Then he saw Arion close the door.

Very quietly.

Dean turned. ”No.”

Arion looked at him. ”I haven’t said anything.”

”You closed the door like a man with plans.”

”I have many plans.”

”We have fifteen minutes.”

”Fourteen now.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. ”That should discourage you.”

”It does not.”

Of course it did not.

Arion approached him slowly, still in full ceremonial attire, black and gold, severe and stunning and entirely too aware of the fact that Dean had not moved away.

Dean should have moved away.

He had a second outfit to survive.

The rest of the evening required appearances. There would be a formal entrance, a first toast, probably another speech, the first dance, several diplomatic greetings, and at least one noble who would try to flatter him while examining how much influence he already had over Arion.

Dean needed to change.

Dean needed water.

Dean needed a moment to gather what remained of his dignity.

Arion stopped in front of him.

Dean forgot all three.

His husband lifted one hand and touched the high collar of Dean’s ceremonial jacket, fingers brushing over the embroidery with the same restrained focus he had used during the vows.

”You were beautiful,” Arion said.